


Phantom Pain

by Tsunai5



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Fuhrer Roy Mustang, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Promised Day, dad!ed, pretty much straight up angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:09:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsunai5/pseuds/Tsunai5
Summary: The promised day has come and gone, but scars still linger, wounds still bleed. Will our heroes ever be rid of their phantom pain?





	1. Chapter 1

The night was quiet, not a single creature stirring in all the countryside, the only things moving across the landscape were the gentle, wispy clouds drifting in front of the gleaming crescent moon. It was a beautiful night, a peaceful night. 

The lush flatland of Resembool was often quiet, the only sound to break the silence being the bleating of the sheep that peppered the landscape. Amidst these sheep and the vibrantly green grasses stood a small house, a quaint house. A family house, newly constructed and standing not a stone’s throw away from another small, quaint house, this one boasting a wooden sign with “Auto Mail” painted across it in a dirty white. It was the kind of night where no one was suffering, no children were crying, no adults arguing over this or that. 

It was peaceful.

Ed woke up screaming.

The night’s serenity was shattered in an instant as the shriek pierced the quiet flatlands of Resembool. He writhed underneath his sheets, clutching his right shoulder in a white knuckle grip. His breathing was ragged, he was hyperventilating, and tears were running freely down his face as he wept and wailed. 

Winry reached across from her side of the bed, grabbing both of Ed’s arm in a tender, but firm grip.  
“Ed!” she yelled, not viciously, but caring and resolute, “Ed, listen to me. Ed!”  
He looked up at her, his face contorted and twisted into a pained grimace, “It hurts, Winry,” he choked out, “Oh, God, it hurts!”

“It’s okay, Ed, it’s okay,” Winry cooed, enveloping Ed in a tight hug, tears of her own forming in her eyes, “you’re okay, I swear, you’re okay.”

The two stayed there for a long while, embracing on the disheveled bed, both silently weeping into the other’s shoulder.

Ed sucked in a deep, ragged breath, and slowly, ever so slowly, released his grip on his right arm, leaving behind stark red imprints where his hand had been moments before. 

“Mommy?” called a voice from the hallway, “Daddy?”

Both Ed and Winry’s gaze shot towards the speaker. A small child with a shock of golden hair and electrifying blue eyes was standing in the doorway, his tiny hands clutching a tiny teddy bear to his chest.

“Oh, honey, what’re you doing up?” Winry asked, unwrapping herself from Ed and wiping her eyes, “you should be asleep, it’s late.”

“Y-yeah, kid,” Ed choked out, “you need to sleep.”

“Is Daddy okay?” the child asked, turning his big blue eyes to Winry, “I heard him screaming.”

“I…” Winry murmured, turning to Ed, “I don’t…”

“I’m all good, kiddo,” Ed said, struggling, but succeeding, to form a smile despite his grimace, “Your old man is tougher than he looks!”

With that, Ed hoisted himself out of bed and onto trembling feet before shuffling over to the young boy. Ed extended his right arm, hand open, palm out.

“Come on, kid,” he said, “let’s get you back in bed.”

The boy smiled as Ed took the boy’s hand in his, and the two of them shambled through the doorway and down the hallway together.

………………………………………..

Xing’s bustling capital was bursting at the seams with life. The streets were choked with people, everyone going somewhere or doing something, everyone their own exciting and individual person. The hard packed earth that served as a throughway was home to every sort of person imaginable. There were merchants shouting over the clamour of the crowd, peddling their wares. There were the workers, they were easy to spot. Hands callused and dirty, but wide smiles on their faces all the same. Each individual with their own life to lead, their own past, present, and future. Al loved it, every part of it.

He walked down the street, a bag of produce he had purchased from a street vendor swinging in his hand, a glowing smile on his face. He stopped under the shade of a storefront awning to peer at a few wooden toys when an elderly woman carrying some groceries, who had just a moment before been staring at him, dropped her bags and screamed. Al’s smile was quickly replaced with a worried frown, and he whipped around to face the old lady.

“Are you okay, ma’am?” he asked in Xingese, dropping his produce and rushing over to her, “are you hurt?

“You’re him!” the woman shrieked, jabbing a bony finger at Al.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Al said, casting a worried glance at the gaggle of onlookers that was collecting around him.

“You’re the Philosopher of the West!” she cried, “I thought you were only a legend!”

A wave of murmurs passed through the crowd as Al let out a nervous laugh. He had been in Xing for while, and this wasn’t the first time this had happened.

“I can you see why you would think that,” he said, “with my hair and eyes and all, but I’m not the Philosopher of the West.” he shrugged, “sorry, ma’am.”

There was a collective sigh and the congregation began to split up and go about their business as usual. The peddlers peddled, the workers worked, the walkers walked.

Al knelt down and started picking up the old woman’s groceries and putting them back in their bags, inspecting each fruit and vegetable to make sure it was in decent condition before putting it away. The old woman watched with a sullen pout as Al put the last of the foodstuffs away and handed the bags back to her.

“You’re sure you’re not the Philosopher of the West?” she asked, taking her bags back from Al.

“Yeah,” Al said with a warm chuckle, “the Philosopher of the West was actually my dad. I have the same hair and eyes as him, that’s probably why you mistook me for him in the first place.”

The old woman dropped her bags and screamed again.

“Your father is the Philosopher of the West?”

As if they had never left, the crowd reappeared around Al, shouting and asking questions, demanding to know more about his father. Al laughed nervously and edged backwards, holding his hands out in front of him.

“H-hey guys…” he said, backing into the glass window of the toy shop, “C-can’t we all jus-”

And everything went black.

Al had no idea what had happened. One second, he had been just fine, conscious and aware, and now there nothing but a deafeningly silent pitch black that had completely enveloped him. The worst part, though, was neither the darkness nor the silence, but the fact that Al couldn’t feel his body. He couldn’t wiggle his fingers or his toes, he couldn’t inhale or exhale or open or close his mouth, or even so much as blink. It wasn’t just a numbness, either, it was a complete absence of his person. It felt familiar, this absence, and Al couldn’t pinpoint why it felt so well-known to him. It wasn’t until he tasted the pungent tang of metal that he remembered. He wanted to scream, but how could he? He had no mouth. He wanted to writhe and thrash and just hit something, but how could he? He had no body. After everything he and his brother had gone through, everything they had sacrificed, this is what came of it. Back at square zero, and Al had no idea why. He gave up on trying to scream or flail about. All he wanted to do was cry.  
He didn’t realize he had come back until he heard the old woman scream in his ear, “Hey, kid, are you dead?”

Al eased his eyes open, slowly, tediously, and squeezed them shut after catching a single look at the blazing Xingese sun. He wiggled his fingers, and his toes, and opened and closed his mouth, and after finding that he was really back, really, truly back in his body, he wept. He wept bitter, anguished tears.

………………………………………..

Izumi was lying on the bathroom floor, clutching her stomach, a thin line of red dripping from the corner of her mouth. The door burst open, and Sig barrelled in, dropping to his knees at her side.

“Izumi,” he said, worry lining his words, “are you okay?”

“Fine and dandy,” Izumi coughed, speckling Sig’s shirt with flecks of blood, “I’ll be up in just a second.”

Sig extended his hand, but Izumi slapped it away with a strength unbefitting someone in her current state.

“Piss off, Sig,” she spat, “I can stand on my own.”

Regardless, Sig did not move. He stayed there, watching Izumi with those fierce, fearful eyes. Izumi could only match his gaze for so long before she snapped.

“Alright, alright,” she said, extending her hand to Sig, “help me up, will you?”

As if she weighed nothing, Sig hoisted Izumi in his arms and carefully made his way out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, and began making his way to the bedroom when Izumi lightly tapped his shoulder.

“Set me down at the dining table,” she said, gesturing to the table that was set up in the center of the kitchen.

Sig gave her an apprehensive look, but she matched it with a steely, unwavering glare, and he reluctantly set her down on one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“Thank you,” Izumi said, giving her husband a wane smile, “really...thank you, Sig.”

Sig just nodded and opened the fridge, rummaging around, obviously looking for something. Izumi bent over, propping her elbows up on her thighs, holding her head between her hands.

Sig found what he was looking for, a pitcher of water, and proceeded to pour it’s contents into a glass.

“How much longer do you think I have, Sig?” Izumi asked.

Her only answer was the nighttime chirping of the crickets as they hopped about under the moonlight.

“I don’t know,” Sig rumbled as he handed Izumi the chilled glass of water.

“Hmph,” Izumi scoffed, taking a sip from the glass, “can’t be too much longer. Hell, at this rate, I’ll keel over tomorrow morning.”

Sig gave her an anguished look.

Izumi shrugged and took another, longer sip from her glass.

“The store will go to you, after all,” she said, the moon’s pale ray’s illuminating her sallow face with a light the color of bones, “I’ve got my Will written up, have had for awhile. You should consider yourself lucky I’m not giving Ed or Al all of our stuff, then you’d be out of a place to live and a job.”

“You don’t have to be so nonchalant about this,” Sig said in a deep baritone, keeping his sympathetic stare level with her, “I know you’re only doing it to hide the fact that you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared, Izumi.”

She continued drinking her water, keeping her eyes fixedly away from Sig, though he never shifted his gaze.

Izumi blinked rapidly, as if to cover up tears, before setting her glass down on the table, still avoiding eye contact.

“I love you, Sig,” she said, her voice strained, as if she were trying hard to keep it level.

“I love you, too, Izumi.”

“Can you take me to the bedroom now?” Izumi asked, finally making eye contact with Sig, a misty look in her eyes.

Wordlessly, Sig swooped her up in his arms and took her back to the bedroom. The glass was still sitting on the table, the thin layer of water left in it illuminated by the pale moon, the chirping of grasshoppers punctuating the night.

………………………………………..

The alarm rang, a jarring clamour that jolted Roy awake. The bedroom was still pitch black, which he thought was strange, but in his half asleep state, he hardly paid any attention to it. By muscle memory alone, he turned off the clock and untangled himself from the bed sheets before standing up on the warm carpeted floors of the Fuhrer’s suite. He groped about blindly for the light switch, but to no avail, and gave up his blind search after several unsuccessfully minutes.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye!” He called out, “Can you get the lights in here? I can’t see a damn thing!”

“I opened the drapes this morning, Fuhrer Mustang,” Hawkeye responded, “I know you’ve been complaining about how harsh the electrical lighting is.”

“I never figured you for the joking type, Lieutenant,” Roy said.

“I don’t know what you mean, sir,” Hawkeye replied. 

“You obviously didn’t open the drapes, it’s pitch black in here!”

There was a brief pause.

“Are you feeling alright, sir?”

“Yeah. I’m fine, except I can’t s-”

Roy’s words caught in his throat. He suddenly couldn’t breathe, he suddenly couldn’t think. His whole body was numb.

“Oh, God,” Roy groaned, stumbling forward, flailing his arms out in front of him, “Oh, God, I can’t see…”

“Fuhrer Mustang?” Hawkeye called, her voice closer now, “Fuhrer Mustang, is something wrong?”

“I can’t see, Riza,” Roy said again, his face contorted into a pained grimace, “Oh, God, Riza, I can’t see!”

He felt his arm collide with something hard, and cold, followed by the sound of something heavy shattering. He figured it was the Xingese vase Ling had sent him last year. It was a shame, Roy thought, half delirious, it was a one of a kind vase.

He heard the door slam open and the pounding of feet as Riza Hawkeye rushed into the bedroom.

“Roy!” she yelled.

“Riza…” Roy murmured.

He felt his knees going weak, and his legs gave out beneath him. He would’ve collapsed onto a pile of ceramic shards had Riza not bolted over fast enough to catch him.

“Roy, what’s wrong?” Riza asked with genuine worry, supporting Roy as he tried to find purchase with his trembling legs.

“M-my eyes…” he muttered, “I can’t see, Riza. Oh, God, I can’t see…”

Hawkeye held him there for a long moment. He could hear her breathing, feel her heartbeat.

“Listen, Fuhrer Mustang,” Riza said, the worry draining from her voice, replaced with cold apathy, “You need to snap out of this. You’ll be fine, you just need to focus.”

Roy dumbly nodded and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Yes, yes, you’re completely right, Lieutenant,” he said, straightening his posture and shrugging off Riza’s support so he could stand on his own. She still kept a gentle hand on his shoulder, though.

“Would you lead me back to the bed, Lieutenant Hawkeye?” he asked.

“Of course, Fuhrer Mustang.”

Riza guided Roy back to the Fuhrer’s four posted bed, where he promptly sat down, his back supported against the headboard.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Roy said, “that’ll be all, for now. I’ll inform you of any changes if they come about.”

“Of course, Fuhrer Mustang,” she responded. Roy couldn’t see it, but he knew she gave a curt bow before doing a perfect one eighty on her heel and heading for the door.

“Actually,” Roy said, after a pause. He heard Riza pause in her tracks, “could you...stay here with me, Lieutenant?”

“Of course, Fuhrer Mustang,” Riza replied.

Roy could hear the sound of something sliding over carpet as Riza pulled a chair up at Roy’s bedside.

“Could you...um…” Roy cleared his throat and patted the space on the bed next to him, “I-if you wouldn’t mind, Ri-, I mean, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, sir.”

Roy could hear Riza climbing onto the bed, and he could feel it when she leaned her shoulder on his.

“It’s a shame about the vase,” Roy said, trying his best to keep his voice steady, “Ling is going to be upset I broke his present.”

“It wasn’t Ling’s vase, sir,” Riza said, trying her best to keep her voice steady, “It was the one Madame Christmas gave you on your birthday.”

“The handmade one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, good riddance, I say.”

Roy could have sworn he heard Riza laugh, ever so quietly.

Roy’s vision returned, after a while, but he didn’t notice. He was fast asleep, head resting on Riza’s shoulder, while she, too, had drifted off into a quiet, peaceful slumber.

………………………………………..

Ling strolled down the streets of Xing’s capital, his store bought carnival mask allowing him to seamlessly blend in with the other partygoers littering the throughways. Bright red fireworks exploded in the night sky, raining sparks from the stars and illuminating the heavens with a dull glow. The lanterns swinging from roof tops and awnings bathed the roads in a serene light, casting the various individuals enjoying the night’s festivities in sharp contrast with their surroundings. Ling saw people in all sorts of outfits and masks, it all started to blend together into one solitary mob. He passed by vendors peddling festival foods, peddlers vending toys for children, merchants selling masks and robes for ridiculously cheap. Ling loved the festival season, but he had no time to enjoy it tonight. He had somewhere to be. He looked west, towards the crest of a hill just outside the cities borders. It was a long ways, and the pilgrimage would take all night.

He passed into the city square, where the largest concentration of festivities was taking place. He saw dancers, musicians, and performers of all kind showcasing their talents in the center of the plaza. Ling stopped to watch, admiring the latest group, several shirtless men breathing fire. The performance was so distracting, Ling hardly noticed the old woman. 

She was cursing up and down as she tried, and failed, to push a cart laden with festival foods out of a rut in the unpaved road. Ling cast one last glance before rushing over to help. 

“On three,” Ling yelled, grabbing one end of the cart, “One, two, three!”

Ling, and a slightly startled old woman, hefted the cart up and out of the rut, dragging it pack onto the flat part of the road. Ling wiped his hands on his pants and let out a quick breath before turning to continue his journey.

“Wait!” the old woman called, grabbing onto Ling’s sleeve, “let me repay you for this, please!”

“Listen, lady,” Ling said, trying to shrug off her iron tight grip, “I’ve got to meet someone. You don’t need to repay me, really.”

“Well,” old woman said, rummaging around in her cart, “I can give you something from here...and one for your friend, too!”

Ling paused.

“Food?” he asked.

“Yes, of course! What else?” the woman responded.

“I’ll take some of those meat...stick...things.” Ling said.

The woman snatched two odd smelling kebab-esque things from the bottom of the cart and gingerly handed them to Ling.

“Thank you, ma’am!” Ling called as he walked away, “enjoy the festival!”

He walked farther into the city, closer to his destination. He could just make out the pink leaves on the tree at the top of the hill. 

This section of the cities streets were less densely packed, more sparsely occupied by partygoers and tenants alike. It wasn’t a nice part of town, that was for sure, but Ling didn’t feel threatened. He strolled down the road, nonchalant as ever, mystery meat tucked under one arm. He was so intent on his destination that he nearly tripped over the beggar. She was bent over on the ground in a deep bow, her forehead touching the tattered mat she had set up. A small, nearly empty bowl sat next to her, empty save for a few spare coins. The beggar spoke no words, not even lifting her head to acknowledge any of the passerbys. 

Ling stopped in front of her, one hand fishing around in his many pockets while the beggar stayed motionless, not shifting an inch. He pulled out a small, silken pouch and dropped it into the bowl with the heavy clink of valuable coins. At the quiet cha-chink, the beggar’s hand shot out and closed around the pouch, feeling it, wrapping her thin, bony fingers around it. She grasped it in her palm and immediately shot upright, smiling a crooked toothed smile and clutching it close to her chest. A bloodied rag was wrapped around the beggar’s eyes as she bowed over and over again, mouthing incoherent words. Ling smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Enjoy the small fortune, ma’am.” Ling said, walking off with his mystery meat tucked under one arm, the beggar still aggressively bowing in his wake.

Ling had arrived at the very edge of the city, and if the last part of the city had been somewhat dangerous, this part was lethal. Ling saw more gangs milling about than he cared to count, but still, he stayed nonchalant, walking with even more swagger than before. The hill was so close now that he couldn’t even see the tree at it’s peak. He saw an alleyway that would get him to his destination quicker, and by the position of the moon, he figured the sun would rise soon, and he needed to get this done as soon as possible. Even the eerie quietness of the backstreet would not deter him. He turned on his heel and started walking in the narrow space between two run down buildings. The silence was deafening, and despite his easy going indifference, Ling found himself walking slower and more carefully, checking over his shoulder and around corners everywhere he turned. He continued like this for awhile, before he heard a low, threatening growl.

Ling walked faster, but the source of the vicious snarl stalked him with a pitter patter that echoed through the entire alley, bouncing off walls and always finding it’s way back to Ling. The noise was coming from all around him, and it was getting closer, closer, so close he could hear it’s ragged breathing, so close he could see it’s mangy fur, so close, in fact, that Ling could see it was a dog, limping along beside him. It was a hungry dog, too. Starving, as a matter of fact, it’s ribs jutting out from it’s sallow skin. 

Ling gave the dog one look before tossing one of the kebab-esque things to the ground, watching as the mutt tore into it with savage abandon.

“Hope it’s not your cousin,” Ling remarked as he sauntered off towards the hill, his confidence reinvigorated.

 

The pink petals bloomed on the tree’s thin branches, creating a small patch of shade from the rising sun. There was a single, unmarked slab of stone dug into the delicate roots criss-crossing from the tree’s base. Ling knelt down in front of the blank marker and removed his mask, laying it flat in the dirt before setting his remaining mystery meat at the grave.

“You’d have loved the festival season,” Ling said, staring out at the golden horizon as tiny slivers of red and violet peaked over the crest of the hill, “so much food! You wouldn’t believe it! And don’t get me started on all the knick knacks they’re selling! Jewelry and toys and everything shiny under the sky!”

Ling smiled, patting the dirt at the grave’s base.

“And since I’m the Emperor, I could’ve gotten you anything you wanted! Money and women, power and sex, status, glory!” A single tear snaked down Ling’s cheek, his voice trembling, “all the finer things in life.”

He took a single, deep breath, wiping the tear from his face.

“I miss you, friend,” Ling said, “I really miss you.”

There was no response, only the sound of wind blowing through the tree’s slender branches.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out in the scorching desert of Ishval, scars take up every inch of the landscape. If any place were to feel pain, it would be this one, and if any people were to bleed anew with every waking moment, it would be these people.

The staccato of gunshots. The bone-rattling rumble of explosions. So many screams, so many dead, but now, there was nothing but sand.

Scar crouched down and ran his hand through it, the coarse earth that stretched off to the horizon in every direction. The map said this was where his village had once stood, but like so many other things, any trace of it had been eroded away with time. In his mind, he saw it as it once was, the broad streets bustling with activity. Greetings sung out, pleasantries exchanged, jokes told and laughs had. They had been a family, here, once. Each and every person sharing a bond deeper than just that of neighbours. He, and so many others, had a good life. A good life of peace, of safety, of happiness. 

But now, there was nothing but sand.

He remembered the way the town had been after the war started. He remembered the way the streets slowly emptied out, everyone too afraid to leave the safety of their homes. The usual banter was replaced with the low murmur of prayers as families and individuals pleaded to the heavens for protection, that they may be spared from the wrath of the coming army. Less and less people ventured outside, and eventually, the streets stayed empty. No one so much as peeked their head out of their door. No more pleasantries. No more jokes. No more laughter. Only fear, deep and terrible.

But that fear, too, was gone now. Nothing left of it but sand.

Sand and scars, that is.

“Hey, boss!” A voice rang out from atop a sand dune as a liberally clad worker waved, “Where do you want the boys to drop the stuff off?”

Scar grunted and rose to his feet, letting the sand fall between his fingers and back to the ground.

“Right there,” he pointed to a patch of desert at the foot of the dune.

“Alrighty, will do!” the worker beamed, giving Scar a mock salute.

“And get Major Miles out here.”

“The Major?” the worker asked, scratching his grizzly chin.

“Yes.”

“I’ll see if I can get ahold of him,” he responded, after a brief pause.

Scar grunted again before turning his gaze to the sky. The worker took his que and disappeared back behind the dune, grumbling something about sand in his boots. Scar could hear a few clipped commands, followed shortly after by the roar of engines as several trucks rumbled to life. He wiped his brow, his hand coming away slick with sweat. The brutal heat was omnipresent in the Ishvalan desert, and it suited him just fine. Others, like the Major, had not taken to the weather as keenly, and spent as much daylight as possible fanning themselves beneath the shade of a tent, sheltered from the rays of the sun. It didn’t help matters that Miles refused to take off his full Briggs regalia, thick, fur-lined coat included. Despite all the glares Scar had thrown his way, Miles was yet to remove even a single layer.

A man shouted something over the the cacophonous screech of engines, the convoy of trucks grinding to a halt shortly thereafter. A brigade of workers hopped from their various perches atop the automobiles, their heavy boots sinking into the sand as they hefted heavy stone bricks from the truck beds, laying them down on the ground before reaching to grab another. 

“You asked for me?” Miles called from the passenger seat of one of the trucks, his voice stern, commanding, even when not giving orders.

“I did.”

“What do you need?” Miles adjusted his coat, the collar of which was already soaked with sweat.

“Do you have the map?”

“I do,” He procured a roll of paper from within one of his many layers.

Scar closed the distance between him and Miles with a few purposeful strides, plucking the map from his hands.

“Oversee the reconstruction.”

Miles gave a solemn nod, “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“As do I.”

Scar unrolled the map, his eyes darting over it until resting on the point he was looking for, a small black dot that, according to the map’s key, was two miles away. He turned until he was facing, by his best guess, the right direction, and slowly began trekking out into the desert. He’d hardly taken two steps before pausing.

“Miles,” he called out over his shoulder, “take off the coat.”

“It’s the only thing that keeps the sand from getting in my clothes,” Miles replied.

Scar’s only response was silence.

Two miles came and went fairly quickly. The treacherous terrain hadn’t impeded him as much as he’d expected, and he’d arrived at his destination just shortly after the sun had reached it’s peak. It was a patch of desert like any other, flat and lifeless. No markers to signify that it was in any way different than the rest of the endless expanse that dominated the landscape. Scar checked the map one more time before carefully rolling it up and putting it in his pocket. 

The Ishvalan War of Extermination had a body count far surpassing any other conflict Amestris had ever engaged in. The corpses were piled up in the streets, mutilated in an uncountable amount of horrifying ways. When the issue had grown to uncontrollable proportions, the Amestrian Army began utilizing mass graves to remedy it. When the Flame Alchemist was present, the would burn the bodies. When he wasn’t, they would shovel sand on top of them and hope that an errant gust of wind wouldn’t uncover any unsatisfactory sights. Scar didn’t know which category this grave fell into, but enough time had passed that it didn’t matter anymore. He dropped to his knees, coarse sand biting at his bare legs, blisteringly hot grains stabbing at his calves. He didn’t even notice.

“Rest with God,” he whispered, the eulogy flowing from his lips, a remnant from his days as a monk, “Return to the earth from whence He brought you, to be joined with Him in your eternal rest.”

He balled his fists, gritting his teeth. This was the part of the prayer where the speaker would pour Holy Water onto the ground, but he had brought none.

“Your memory will live on with your brothers and sisters,” he continued, his voice growing more and more strained with each passing syllable, “they will remember you, and carry you with them in their souls, not as a burden, but as a boon. Their journey will be easier with you at their side.”

A few tiny droplets fell to the ground, speckling the dry sand with dark, wet dots.

“Slumber on, brothers and sisters, and know you will never be forgotten.”

Scar stayed kneeling for a while after that, before silently rubbing his eyes and rising to his feet. He gave one last look to the lifeless patch of desert, and then began the two mile journey back to the place where his town was being rebuilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now realize I may have omitted a very important character from my initial drabble. I hope you enjoy this unplanned and impromptu update. As always, any and all criticism is welcome and appreciated. Make sure to let me know if I missed any warnings.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if there are any warnings I missed, let me know. I hope you enjoyed, and any criticism is greatly appreciated.


End file.
